


Vision of Ruin

by StarsOverTheEast



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, not as dark - dark lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsOverTheEast/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: Melkor has made peace with the Valar and sits in Máhanaxar as a Vala restored.Fëanor crafts the Silmarils, Ungoliant prowls the land.And Mairon has nightmares of a future he fears will come true.-Edited with new content.





	Vision of Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsgardianAngels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsgardianAngels/gifts).



> Updated: 2/22/2018, with added scenes/dialogue/clearer plot.
> 
> Now an expanded story!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506962/chapters/33515979

_The scream seems to shatter the night._

_Mairon is awake and stumbling down the stairs of the fortress before his mind fully processes what has happened. The stone doors are thrown open with a shove and he falls into the night with a gasp._

_Melkor._

_Where is he?_

_He turns about, once, twice, three times in desperation before he sees the light that pierces the dark of the sky. A column of white that lingers like a fog before suddenly melting away and the scream rings out again._

_Mairon runs forward, wills his body to change form; into something faster, stronger. His muscles ache and his limbs seems to contort but the change does not come and he is left running and running and gaining no ground._

_A cloud of smoke rises in the distance, takes the form of a spider. A terrible beast of webs and rotting flesh that lashes out at the land and coats it in darkness fouler than anything Mairon has ever seen. It thrashes about, stomping out the very stars themselves as they fall from the sky and its shrieks seem to bend back the trees._

_It’s coming towards him, hurrying along and devouring everything in its path. If he cannot change to meet this beast he will have to fight it in this raiment. Mairon’s hands reach for a weapon, for armour, for something and find only cloth. His fire then, he can summon the fire. Summon his very beating heart to scorch and burn his creature and drive it back from -_

_The scream sounds again and he falls to his knees, clutching his head at its sound. What could cause a Valar to cry so? What force could possibly bring the Mighty Arising to such turmoil? For it can be the voice of no other._

_He cannot summon the fire._

_His very essence and he is powerless._

_No._

_No._

_NO!_

_Is he not a ainu? What has become of him, what -_

_The web stretches to his feet and wraps about his legs like vines, pulling him to the ground; and then he sees him. Melkor, wrapped in the darkness himself and the spider over him. Posed to devour._

_To devour them both._

Mairon jolts up in bed, his hair a mane of flames and his fingers reducing the sheets to ash.

He does not remember the dream come morning.

-

The trail of Melkor’s robe is a river of silk upon stone as he moves down the steps of the Máhanaxar and Mairon is a fire descending.

“Even as their golden elves sing my praise they will not give me recognition.”

“Master …”

Melkor sighs, reaches behind his back and snaps the delicate silver that holds his hair. Sends it falling from its braid into a cascade of black.

_“You wish to build?” Yavanna had hissed to him, her eyes ablaze with anger. “Perhaps you may rebuild the Vanyar’s garden, the one that whose trees you rotted and flowers you decayed.”_

_The valië had dug her fingers into the arms of her throne, had sent the gentle vines resting upon her arms into swirling arms of thorns. Her handmaiden and even the gentle whispers of Aulë had been unable to fully soothe her and Mairon had not missed the darkening of her gown._

_“You speak as if I razed it to the ground,” Melkor had answered, his voice calm. “I merely taught them of change and the growth of something more.”_

_“That is not how things are done.”_

Manwë’s voice had been soft, that of a peacekeeper and Mairon had hated him for it. Not how things are done. Wasn’t that the problem? Wasn’t that why they had shunned Melkor in the first place? When he had come to Arda and poured his essence into the ground, both creating and destroying. Destroying, no. That was not of their plans and could not be allowed.

“Has Thuringwethil returned?”

“Nay,” answers Mairon. “I have little doubt that she has found something to amuse her and it has caused delay. I could go to her, speed her along.”

Melkor shakes his head.

“No. If they will not listen then her reports to me will make no difference.”

“Perhaps …”

The words in Mairon’s throat die as the sounds of elf children raise into the air. There are noises of small feet, of swishing cloaks and the winged maiar about them raise their heads. The elf children coming to see -

Melkor.

The first crashes into his legs, falls back and is saved only by Mairon's grasping of her hand. Her two companions stumble to a stop, tilting their heads back to gaze upon the vala’s face, to marvel at so magnificent a figure.

The whispers of the maiar and the curses of Tulkas have not driven the elves away, nay, they are drawn to Melkor as creatures to a flame. To his council, to his wisdom, his power and they cherish it as dearly as his brother’s.

‘He is a generous lord’, Mairon had told them. ‘Wise above all and his hand is upon Arda; ever shaping, ever creating.’

Their children have responded best.

If the older elves had heard the whispers of the broken lamps and great war the young had been spared and knew Melkor only as a one of the Valar. Lord of the land, giver of gifts, and creator of things most wonderful.

“It is for you, Lord Melkor.”

A crown of flowers, violet and still wet with dew. A delicate gift made from equally delicate hands. The child holds it high, balances on the tips of toes so that her master may see the gift, may accept it and bring her honor.

Mairon takes it from her, smirks at their sudden expression of fear of a being of fire holding such a thing, and turns to present it to Melkor in the manner of the herald maiar.

And then pauses.

Such a ritual seems foolish, seems non personal and only adds to the feeling of separation to the social structure that Mairon has come to hate. He places the crown back in the child’s hand, places a hand on her back and pushes her towards Melkor.

“Present your gift to your lord.”

“Me?”

Mairon nods and the elf bows before Melkor, places the crown in his outstretched hand. He turns it about in his hand, brushes a finger over the largest flower and then turns his attention back to the elf.

“What name is given you?”

“Anarórë, My Lord.”

“I thank you, Anarórë.”

There is a silence for a moment and Mairon feels the eyes of the maiar at their backs; watching, judging and ever pondering. One of the children ducks his head, rubs his foot against the ground and then speaks suddenly in a flow of words.

“My Lord Melkor … Will you call forth the snow again?”

A grin spreads across Melkor’s face, the first Mairon has seen in hours.

“Perhaps,” Melkor answers and the delight is clear upon their faces.

Snow. Mairon feels a shiver run down his spine. Melkor had first conceived of it during the Song and at that moment was the maia’s hate born.

His lord had set his Valinor home to the north, to an area free of his kin and ready and waiting for his crafting hand. He had raised ice, painted frost, and rained white crystals from the heavens. A delight for himself and a treat for the elves, a gift and a blessing and an opportunity to gain friendship.

They had come, the elves and the maiar, and the Valar. Walked among the snowy banks, tasted the flakes upon their tongue and fell into the embrace of the snow to craft images with their arms. Melkor had been more than pleased and Mairon had taken pleasure in counting smiles upon faces whose owners were hesitant to show them.

He had stood by his master’s side through it all, stood proudly as a proper herald and loyal friend. Stood through the snowballs and the blasts of icy wind and Melkor’s insistent suggestions to ‘at least touch the snow Mairon, it won’t harm you’. He had piled cloaks of fur upon his shoulder and hidden wolf pups close to his chest and still the cold and wet had reached his skin. It was only when Melkor had set ablaze the fires of his forge and the great halls of his palace that Mairon had shed his layers and admired the snow.

From inside.

It had been a small satisfaction that he had not abandoned his lord, not when so many of his fiery brothers and sisters had. They had retreated inside, shed the form of the children and huddled together in the braziers and pits.

The children bow now, say the usual words of glory and power and thanks and dash away. Mairon watches them go, watches Melkor examine the crown once more and then speaks to calm not only his master’s mind but his own.

“The elves favor you, Yavanna and the others cannot long their anger.”

“They can.”

They can indeed. Mairon knows. Has he not seen his lord’s own anger? Has he not witnessed the Giver of Fruits lash out in pain and fury at the destruction of her children when he worked in her husband’s forge?

“There are some who see you as you truly are,” he says.

“I would that they all could.”

-

_Melkor’s hands are covered in gauntlets of black, his hands curdled into fists and an expression of pain rests upon his face._

_“My Lord …”_

_Mairon reaches for his hand and hisses at the heat that seems to rise from the metal. What fire can burn one born of fire?_

_The gauntlets fall off and Melkor’s hands hang limply at his side; burned, black, and twisted. Mairon swallows back a gasp and takes one in his own hand, wills for healing and wonders why Melkor has allowed himself to be marred thus. But surely nothing can harm one who wields a fire more intense than even his own?_

_A horn of battle sounds far behind him, calls him to arms as lieutenant as Mairon finds himself overlooking a horde of elves. A mob that sweeps over the orcs like a wave and crashes against the tower in which he stands._

_“Go!” he screams in a voice that is his own but not commanded by him. Maia, twisted in form and in the shape of a burning mountain rush forth descending upon the elves with the crack of their whips. Mairon smiles and allows himself a moment of pride._

_And then one falls._

_And another._

_There is a lone elf now, one that burns just as bright and screams a challenge and calls a name Mairon has never heard but knows to whom it refers._

_Morgoth._

_Black foe._

_The balrogs fall upon him, crush him to the ground and fade away as he burns and his smoke rises to the heavens. Mairon hardly notices the seven lights in the distance, each burning as the lone elf did. The lone elf he knows but cannot name._

_“My lord,” he says, turning to report and is stopped by what he sees._

_Melkor, black as ash and cradling his hands to his chest._

_“Master,” Mairon whispers, kneeling. “Flee this form.”_

_“I cannot._

The wolves on Mairon’s bed scatter as he bolts awake, shakes his head and stumbles to the window.

And he breathes to calm the burning in his hands.

-

“It is well to have you among us again, my friend.”

Eönwë’s voice is soft against the roar of the crowd but loud in the ears of Mairon. The maia stands before him, a vision of white feathers and gray raiment; a striking comparison to the red and black and fiery crown of Mairon.

He’s glad to see him as well, tries to say as much but the words come out feeling bitter and hinting of the hurt in his chest.

“My Lord Manwë is ever pleased for his brother’s change of heart. That Lord Melkor now walks among us and teaches and speaks to the elves is a comfort to his heart. Although I wish …”

Wish? What does he wish?

Eönwë grows quiet, turns away and Mairon finds the new object of his attention. The Herald of Aule; a maia of stone and fire and wearing a crown that looks very much as his own.

“You could have taken his place,” Eönwë states, as though it is only natural, only proper.

“I could have been a hammer among an endless sea,” Mairon replies and the object of their attention looks away.

The door of the room swings open and a light of radiance shines upon the walls. Heads turn, mouths gasp. Even Varda, who is the very light of the room, wears an expression of awe.

Fëanor.

It is Fëanor and the crown upon his head has set him ablaze as a star of the sky. The elves flock to him at once, crowd about him and his family and whispers both words of praise and wonder. What are they? Where did they come? Did you …?

“They are born of my hand,” Fëanor tells them, takes the crown from his head and admires the stones as though he holds another child. “The very light of the trees rests within them. They are the work of my heart and the glory of my soul.”

The Valar come then, part the elves like the splitting of a sea and Varda stretches forth her hand.

“They are beautiful.”

Mairon does not see the elf’s reaction, does not see the frown upon his face or the way he draws them nearer. His eyes fix upon his master, upon the look of want and lust and the way the very flame of Melkor’s ëala seems to reach towards the stones.

“How is this so?” he hears Eönwë whisper.

Mairon cannot deny the beauty, cannot the shine and the way they seem to call to each soul in the room. But he also cannot deny the dread in his chest, the panic the light brings and the faint feeling of danger.

“I would hallow them,” Varda says, taking the largest stone in her hand and whispering in a voice that sounds of the night and makes the elves cover their ears. Melkor steps to her side, reaches for the second as Manwë takes the third.

They stand, transfixed and in awe until Fëanor holds forth his hand and demands their return through the anger in his eyes.

“They are fine work,” Melkor tells him, drops the stone into his hand with reluctance that Mairon does not miss. “You have taken my council -”

“I took no council of yours, my Lord. The Silmarils are wrought of my hand and no craft of yours has touched them.”

Mairon feels the flames of his crown rise.

He guards them through the night, wears them as proud as any king and the conversation turns to nothing else. Melkor watches every move, hears every compliment, feels every word of Fëanor’s scorn.

And he burns.

-

_There is a beating, a beating on the doors and Mairon and cannot silence it._

_“The elf king comes,” the orcs whisper as they linger by the door and cower. “He says he wants battle.”_

_Battle? The elf wishes to battle? Mairon burns at the thought, wills himself into a form of black amour and burning skin._

_“Morgoth! Coward!”_

_Melkor’s hands grip the arms of his throne, crush the very stone and send the dragons at his side into a hiss. His head is bowed low, heavy and blackened and those stones, those CURSED STONES are blazing and setting his skin on fire._

_Melkor takes up Grond now, pushes open the doors and steps into battle._

_He is tall, dark, a creature of black and his blows hold the strength of the mountains. Mairon stands atop Angband, watches as he strikes at his foe again and again and again._

_Flames sprout from the earth, pits open under Grond’s blows and still the elf king remains. Still he strikes and Melkor’s cries of anguish shake the stones beneath Mairon’s feet. The stones are slowing him, are delaying him are harming him and Mairon can swear he hears laughter._

_The elven king falls, gasps as he is crushed beneath Melkor’s foot and peace finds Mairon for a moment. He has won, he has won as is right. They will feed him to the wolves, send his banner and his shield to his followers and they will know to fear the Lord of Arda._

_The elf strikes then, cuts and the blood seems to cover the land. There is the sound of wings, a scream of pain and Mairon finds himself pulling Melkor’s hands away from his face._

-

“Something is coming.”

Melkor lays his hand upon the tree, watches as the golden bark of Laurelin pales beneath his touch.

“My Lord?”

“They think I am destruction, chaos, and death. They have not seen the true darkness.”

Mairon has heard this before. Has heard of the creatures of darkness and the monsters Melkor has seen within the corner of the void. His master tells him little, speaks only of them in the hush of the night as though afraid of summoning them my mere mention of their name alone.

“I am the Lord of Arda,” Melkor continues, gazes towards the sea and towards the lands that shift and change and grow with every beat of his heart.

How much of himself has he poured into the land, Mairon wonders. How much has he given to that which he loves above all?

“There is one,” Melkor says, digs into fingers into the bark of the tree and Mairon thinks he sees the light falter. “One that moves about the mountains and seeks to devour. She could drain these twigs of their light and blot out Valinor with a web of darkness. She would consume the land.”

He pauses.

“If I but gave her my power.”

“My Lord?”

There is a festival tonight, a celebration Mairon has not bothered to learn the meaning of, and the lights of Valinor are bright behind them. Somewhere among the crowd stands Fëanor as he wears the most beautiful of them all upon his head. They will be adored tonight, sang about, and longed for. And Fëanor will grow more jealous, will withdraw and hide the stones away as Melkor has predicted. Mairon does not doubt his words.

Nor does he doubt this threat.

“She could not stand against you, nor against the Valar.”

“What has she to stand against? Fools who find fault in he who loves the land and even now drink and are merry? Who gaze upon their people and are glad in their hearts that I have not come?”

Mairon does not answer.

“She may come, I may allow it per chance. For even if my hand were against it they would accuse me of the evil and her power and webs would be laid to my name.”

“Should we not seek to destroy her?”

“Perhaps,” Melkor replies and his eyes seem to search for something in the leaves above them. “She may yet have her uses though, if she comes. Nay, she will come, as they all will. I have only to decide how best she will serve.”

Melkor turns his attention to Telperion, to the silver tree which glows more gentle than his sister and whom Melkor has long favored.

“The land lays in rest and does not change,” Melkor says as he bends of the limbs. “I would shape it in my hands Mairon; destroy, change, and build. They would remain here in a land never changing, as still as the murals on their palace walls. Does the time of the second children not hasten?”

“I believe they have long forgotten them.”

“Even I who they feared would kill the offspring take more thought than they.”

There is a snapping of bark, the sigh of leaves in the wind, and Melkor places a small fruit of glowing silver in Mairon’s hands.

-

_He is choking, hurting, dying._

_Mairon gasps for air, struggles with the jaws at his neck, and twists about in desperation. He is a wolf, a serpent, a monster, and then a man. And he cannot break free._

_“Yield yourself,” the voice whispers. “Submit to me or forever be the object of your master’s scorn.”_

_His hands are covered in blood and his limbs are weak. The jaws crunch, snapping his bones and Mairon screams as he feels his land taken from him and his body thrown into the dust. He flees then, speeds from them on wings of black and hate in his eyes._

_He returns to Melkor, returns to safely and stumbles towards the throne with fear in his heart. His hair hangs about his face, knotted and red with his blood and he hardly notices the orcs upon the ground._

_The singing is strange in his ears, pleasant and powerful and it is precious seconds too many before he realizes what it is. A song of power, a song of sleep._

_He takes the form of a wolf, throws himself forward and watches as Melkor is thrown to the floor. As the crown rolls from his head and the stones scatter._

_He is too late._

_He tosses himself at the elf, fire and fangs and the fury and anger of a thousand maiar. She tosses him aside as though he nothing and Mairon’s shame burns within his chest. The man takes the stone, holds it high overhead and proclaims himself worthy. Killer of Morgoth, defiler of the shadow._

_And Mairon’s jaws clamp around his wrist._

_He burns then, burns even when he spits the hand to the floor and shifts back into the form of man. Burns when he takes the stone in his hand and screams and wakes Angband from its slumber._

_Burns when Melkor tosses him across the room._

_“You would steal from me?”_

_“No, My Lord, NO!”_

_Melkor is twisted, deformed and the stones burn into flesh and set there as a crown without metal. He crushes Mairon to the ground and leans close to his ear._

_“You have failed me … Sauron.”_

_Mairon awakens with a pounding in his heart, the taste of blood on his lips, and a name ringing in his ears._

_Sauron._

_The Abhorred._

-

The night is still as Mairon ascends the hill. It is the time of Telperion and the elves lay at rest and at dream in the visions of Irmo. The grass is soft beneath his feet and his spins with at thousand different questions.

He hears their voices before he sees them..

“Irmo delights in the calls of the night,” Manwë is saying. “You have bought music to that which he cherishes and Varda’s heart is pleased to see the movement beneath her stars.”

Mairon steps closer, presses himself close to a tree and closes his eyes to take a breath.

“Ulmo finds joy in the snow, in the mighty glaciers that sail upon his oceans. He will not speak openly of such but I have seen his inner heart.”

He is standing at his brother’s side, the king and the would be king of Arda.

“I am glad you are among us Melkor.”

There is a silence.

“Brother …”

“You seek to glorify my gifts only when it pleases you.”

“We seek to glorify your gifts when they are to the betterment of Arda.”

Melkor turns and Mairon sees the anger in his eyes. Manwë frowns and the gentle breeze of the night sighs and rattles the limbs of the trees. He does not understand, he has never understood.

“You sought to do evil to the land, Melkor,” Manwë says and his voice is that of a father scolding a son. “You fouled the Spring of the land and corrupted our works. It was the will of Eru that you -”

“It was the will of Manwë!” Melkor hisses, and his voice is that of the crumbling stone and the grinding ice. “The will of Varda, of Tulkas, of the Valar alone.”

“You would have destroyed the land.”

“No.”

“No?”

Manwë’s voice holds a challenge, a question, a chance for Melkor to explain and be judged.

“I am merely following the will of The One,” Melkor says. “You do not command Yavanna to stop the spread of her seeds, nor do you ask Ulmo to cease the crashing of the waves. How then would you command me?”

“Melkor you - “

”You are the breath of Arda and I am its very heart. I am decay, I am upheaval, I am death, I am life, I am CHANGE.”

The roar of the storm is within his voice, and Mairon shivers at the crack of power that rumbles through the air. 

The brothers stand as still as the grand statues in their halls and all of creation is hushed about them.

“Do you wish assurance of my love? Of my loyalty? Would that please you?” Melkor says and the words are not a question.

“Assurance?”

Mairon feels the brush of Melkor’s mind against his own and hears words as clear as though the vala were at his side.

“She is here.”

Mairon needs no direction on where to turn for as Melkor speaks the presence makes itself felt, or rather perhaps Melkor has uncloaked it.

The Lords of Arda turn and Manwë’s gasp seems to still the wind. The shadow hovers only mere feet from them, a black blot among the spilling pools of light from the trees. It watches them for a mere moment more and then darts away leaving splotches of inky black in its wake.

Mairon hears Melkor’s voice again.

“One of her offspring. Drawn to the light as her mother. Through her, She will savour the light and her hunger will grow.”

“I could kill it.”

A hidden fire burns in Mairon’s hand and his golden hair ripples with red.

“No,” comes the command, “not yet.”

Manwë’s gaze rests upon the spot for many seconds more, contemplating, wondering, questioning.

“I will call forth one of the hunters,” he says at last. “Evil cannot be allow to come within the holy land.”

“They will suspect it was bought here by my hand rather than admit any fault of their own,” Melkor responds.

Manwë fixes him with a stare. No fear rests upon his face (‘too foolish to fear’, his master says), just a questioning of another sort. Melkor does not look away, does not flinch, only speaks.

“You already have one enemy, brother. You need not make another.”

-

_Everything is falling to pieces._

_Mairon rushes down the hall, shoves himself past the fleeing orcs and the shrieking maiar. They are fleeing before the Valar’s army, he knows, but there is no time now for punishment. Let them be folder anyway, another obstacle between the winged soldiers and the throne._

_The earth groans, an after effect from the great dragon’s fall and Mairon falls in a heap at Melkor’s feet._

_“They are here,” he says, drawing himself up. “The gate has fallen.”_

_Melkor raises his head and Mairon falls back._

_His master sits darkened; the jewels burned into his head head and his hands decayed and of no use._

_“So I die,” Melkor whispers._

_“No,” Mairon says as he wraps his arms about the vala, raises him from his seat and stumbles down the steps with his king._

_Melkor leans heavily upon him, his feet dragging over the floor and his breath coming in pants._

_“There are paths,” Mairon tells him, “ones that cowards have already taken. You could -”_

_They fall to the ground and Mairon feels Melkor wretched away from him by too many white, glowing hands._

_The dark room fades away to polished, shining white walls and a mighty throne. They slam Melkor onto the ground, tear the stones from his head and grind his face against the ground._

_“Bind him,” comes the order._

_Mairon watches as they lift their swords, feels the splatter of Melkor’s blood against his face. Hears the clank of chains as they rest upon his master’s arm and the sound of the hammer as they beat his crown about his neck._

_They cast him into the Void then, into a black pit with creatures who raise their heads and bear their fangs and Melkor falls into suspension in the midst._

_“Shall we cast this one as well?” Eönwë asks and pain from the point of his sword against Mairon’s skin does not compare to the pain in his heart._

_“No. He has failed his lord, that is punishment enough.”_

Mairon opens his eyes.

Takes a breath.

And falls back into dark sleep.

-

“Do you trust me Mairon?”

Mairon looks up from his book, fixes his gaze on Melkor’s face. Does he trust him? Once upon a time, no. Now? 

“You know my answer.”

“There is a feast coming.”

He knows. Another day of eating and dancing and singing and Melkor's fixation on the elf and his talk of the jewels. If Mairon has mistrust in his lord it lies only with them. In their allure and the temptation that they present. 

“I am going to bring her,” Melkor says. “I will give unto her my power and she will enter Valinor as a unseen shadow.”

Melkor's words do not fully come as a surprise. In all things of Melkor's hand he has played a part but now Mairon senses another force at work. Jealousy, betrayal, hate, and longing. What Melkor intends to do is known to him. What Melkor may do troubles his heart. 

“I will come with you.”

The vala shakes his head.

“You will stay and attend. You will hold all attention.”

“You cannot do this alone.”

“Do you not trust to my intentions?”

“It is not you whom I do not trust.”

The stones have not been seen in weeks. Sealed away in a vault among the house, say the whispers. Well guarded, out of mind and sight.

But not gone. And not out of reach of a vala.

“What will you do when you have them?”

“What?”

“With the jewels.”

Melkor runs his hand over the table, swirls a black pattern of burning wood.

“I will kill her," he states firmly and does not answer the question.

That the beast will be killed, he has little doubt. But what then? Memories hover on the edge of his mind; images in fog that blaze with fire and ring with dim screams.

A vision of ruin.

-

_Mairon gazes at his hand, at the ring of gold that appears and disappears again. Precious, most precious to him and somehow lost and not. When did he make it? He can’t remember. Can’t remember anything._

_No._

_No, that’s not right._

_He remembers a fall, a siege and his begging his master to flee. To escape into the tunnels far beneath the earth and hide from the fury of those who do not understand._

_He remembers being released, Melkor’s command to flee and the crash of Angband as it fell behind his back._

_He remembers the elves who called him ‘master’, the smith that worked at his side, and the rings of power that rested in his hand._

_He remembers the chants of his name, the statues of black, and the spilling of blood. The people who called him a god, and worshiped at his feet._

_He remembers the king of gold, the arrogance of his heart that he shaped for his own use. The revenge sent, and the revenge lost._

_He remembers the wave crashing down upon him, his form stripped and his soul ruined._

_Mairon turns to his right, gazes at himself in the mirror. Black, torn, and disfigured. His blonde hair burnt to black, his skin cracked and burnt. And his eyes burning with flame._

_Sauron, they chant. Abhorred One. The Cruel One. The terrible One._

_No longer admirable. No longer excellent. No longer loved._

_He feels the flames then. Feels his soul melt and his mind scream for release. He is burning and burning and burning and it hurts more than those cursed stones._

_THOSE CURSED STONES._

Mairon awakens.

And he knows all.

-

The jewels have already begun to burn his hand before he free of the city’s sight and he wonders how long it will take for the elves to sound the alarm.

Finwë had proved little hindrance, and his servants even less so. Mairon had struck when the light had faded, and the cries of sorrow began. A flame in the night that had sent the elves crashing to the ground and lost to the world. Not dead, no. If his master is to return their deaths would only play to his harm.

He crosses the grass now, his arms heavy and his knees weak as the Silmarils scream at him, tear at him, curse him.

He meets Melkor by the sea. Sees the confusion on his face and the anger that smokes in his eyes.

“Mairon.”

“Melkor.”

The beast lingers behind him, bloated and horrible and her mouth issues darkness that Mairon’s flame cannot pierce. Her gaze falls to his hands.

“You have done as I thought to do.”

“Yes.”

“Give them unto me.”

“Nay.”

He can feel the confusion of his lord’s mind, feel the anger that rolls like a raging ocean and the betrayal that freezes him cold as ice.

Mairon drops the box to his feet, holds up his hands and meets Melkor’s mind with his own. Shows him the visions, the burning, the darkness, the corruption. Of Melkor’s laying low and his banishment into the Void. Of Mairon’s undoing from power and his soul set adrift in the world. He shows him the nightmare …

…and moves to cast the jewels into the ocean.

Ungoliant screams, throws him to the ground.

“Black heart! You will not deny me!”

She falls upon him then, a terrible blot that for a minute threatens to enclose the fire in his heart and suffocate him.

He gasps when she is pulled away. Watches as Melkor raises Grond and meets her with the force of a shattering mountain. He drops the jewels to the ground and draws forth fire that burns no less mightily than the pain in his hands.

They fight her then, side by side. A Maia and a Vala and a battle that shakes the ground. Valinor moans beneath them and Mairon can hear the horn of Oromë and the cry of Eönwë as they descend. Can feel the sting of of the shadow and hear the cry of his master as his side.

It is not enough, he thinks. Help will not arrive in time and they will not draw aside their blade from his master’s hand.

The stones.

Mairon takes them in his hand again and falls upon her in a cloud of fire and smoke. The jewels burn into her flesh, rest in her back like hideous wounds and Mairon falls from her with blackened skin and a cry.

She flees then, broken and burned and defeated.

And Mairon clutches his hands to his chest.

-

The next few hours past in a haze.

The departure of the hunters after the creature. The rage of Fëanor and the riot of he and his sons. The glares on his back and Melkor’s raised head as he turned to sit upon his throne.

“I warned you,” he tells them. “I warned you of your danger.”

“You led her here!” Tulkas yells. “You tempted her forth and if you had not given her power none of this would have come to pass!”

“You fool,” Melkor hisses. “She would have came regardless. Under my eye she came and defeat was given.”

Yavanna speaks then, points a finger of accusation.

“And what of the Trees? What of those that you used as bait? The harm has been done regardless of the creature’s death. You could have stopped her before she devoured them.”

“Their time had come to past,” Melkor replies. “Had they not fallen, more would come. And now Middle Earth may enter a new age.”

There is wailing then. Sorrow for what has been lost and foul knowledge that has been gained. They gather about the mounds, watch as the mourner weeps and the gardener plucks the last fruits.

Melkor takes his hands then, while the rest gaze upon the last trace of their trees, and Mairon closes his eyes.

“What have you done,” the vala whispers.

“Your will.”

“No,” Melkor says and he presses his power into the maia’s hands. “No, you have taken what would have been my curse upon yourself.”

Mairon’s hands tremble as Melkor runs a thumb over the blackened palms.

"You could take a new form," Melkor tells him.

"It is deeper than that."

They depart into the Gardens of Lórien. Kneel by its pools and seek healing in its water. Plunge in his hands, time and time again and watch as steam rises in the air. 

“It will only bring the water to a boil,” Irmo tells them and he takes Mairon’s hands and whispers words and weaves spells.

It is no use. Mairon remains burnt.

-

“I would have it so,” Mairon tells Melkor as they stand and gaze at the stars within watery depths. “Rather than what I seen, what could have come to pass.”

“You cannot live like this,” Melkor replies.

“He does not have to.”

Nienna comes to them; casts back her hood and sheds tears.

“It will not be enough,” she tells Melkor. “You must play a part brother, for it was for you that he took this grief upon himself.”

She lays Mairon’s hands before him, places her hand upon his cheek and words unspoken of what could have been pass between them.

And Melkor weeps.

Weeps for what could have been, what is, and what may not come.

And the black begins to fade.

Nienna turns her gaze on Mairon, nods her head and departs.

And his golden head bows, and his tears fall.

-

“She has consumed herself,” Oromë tells them later, when the shadows have been driven back and the last fruit of the trees rests high in the sky.

Mairon stands at his master’s side, a flame of red against the brilliant white of Máhanaxar’s walls.

“The threat has passed?”

There is relief in Manwë’s voice, a light in his eyes, and grateful glance towards his brother.

“The threat remains always,” Melkor replies.

“Then we will be glad to have your council.”

A grin comes to Mairon’s face.

Much has passed, he whispers to Melkor. Much lost and much gained.

Much lost indeed.

Melkor’s eyes fall upon the maia’s hands, upon the hands that he had feared would be darkened forever.

More gained, Mairon tells him. And a fate averted.

Because of you.


End file.
